


The Whole World's A War, Hon

by teamfreetitan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 11:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17282966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreetitan/pseuds/teamfreetitan
Summary: Arthur never got the heroic liberation of France he wanted; Francis was out of it, certainly too out of it for a heartfelt reunion of lovers. But, love wasn't about big, groundbreaking moments. It was moments like this, soft and quiet and kind, under white hospital lights, with gratitude and hope.





	The Whole World's A War, Hon

After the allies had liberated France, Arthur had brought Francis with him back to England, finding a bed for him in the new hospital which had popped up on the shore of the English Channel in war relief efforts. Francis had received medical treatment back in France, but, ultimately, they decided to take him out to recover furthur; France was in shambles and Francis was just as bad.

Arthur had been shooed out of the room while the doctors worked on Francis, but not before catching a glimpse of the injuries along his body.

Every centimeter of his body donned bruises of black and blue and purple hues, and where fading yellow bruises poked out, they were covered in another black bruise, unable to heal. He had several broken ribs, but Arthur had heard that that was the extent of broken bones. Still, Francis found it hard to breathe, when his bones shifted each rise and fall of his chest and the blemishes tugged on his tight skin. His arms and legs were better, but even those showed scratches and scrapes. When Arthur had been pushed out of the room, Francis’ face was still bloody, his hair still stuck to his cheeks with dried, brown liquid, and he was barely able to open his eyes.

The Brit had dreamed of what it would be like when he saved Francis.

Francis had, after being overtaken by the German army, returned to his country to work with the resistance. France had surrendered; they had suffered enormous losses in the first war and wanted to reduce casualties this time. Still, it did not exist in Francis to  _ not _ fight. He had always been a fighter, always been at war. Working with the resistance let him fight without hurting so many.

It also allowed him to message Arthur, sending him letters with information tucked within the sweet nothings he scribbled down. War really put people in a scramble, because his letters had been so revealing of so many feelings which Francis only bubbled out occasionally.

Fears, like how afraid he was of dying at Ludwig’s hand or like how he was absolutely terrified of the destruction that made the French things in his country French. Distress at the horrors he saw. Panic each time he saw the planes fly over the English Channel, ready to shower Arthur and his people with another onslaught of attack. Love, a love for Arthur which had developed in the past few decades since they worked through their issues and decided to give a relationship another try, a better try. Francis, always more of an emotional man than a strategic one, had left so much kept inside, and Arthur loved the letters not only as evidence that Francis was alive but as an expression of emotion which promised that Francis was still  _ Francis. _

Until the letters stopped coming; that was when things were getting worse and worse everyday. Even if Germany had two fronts going, he grappled for control on the nations he had conquered. Francis was putty in his hands.

Arthur never got the romantic, heroic rescue that he wanted. When he took Francis into his arms, it wasn’t in the hug of two long lost lovers, but in frantically checking for his pulse, and in carrying him away from the battle when he was too unwell to even stand on his own. He didn’t get to push his hair out of his eyes to kiss him, because it was plastered to his face with sticky, wet blood.

It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t romantic, but Francis was alive. When they let him into the hospital room, he jumped to join.

Negotiations could come later. Treaties and reparations could come later. Now, they were all trying to recover from the exhaustion and pain of fighting. He knew that somewhere in the hotel lobby, Alfred and Kiku were talking. Arthur couldn’t give a shit: Francis was here, and Francis was alive.

He sat beside the bed and took Francis’ limp hand in his. His fingers finally had warmth again. Arthur let his eyes drag across his face, his body, to see how they had patched him up. His face was clean, shining instead of being hidden beneath a layer of grime. His hair was clean, too, but choppy from the places they had to cut the long, blonde strands.

Francis was shirtless, recovering from the surgery on his chest. To Arthur’s understanding, one of his broken ribs had punctured his lungs, so they had to close the wound. A bandage was adhesed to the skin on his chest, but there was nothing to restrict his lungs. The doctor had told Arthur on his way in to make sure Francis was taking deep breaths; shallow breaths could only make him sick, and if his lungs were restricted, it could hinder his healing. As Arthur looked at his bare chest, Francis seemed to be breathing deeply as he slept, and the bandage still looked clean, and his cuts and scrapes were scabbing over, so, for now, there was no alarm.

Arthur shifted his fingers under Francis’ palm, leaning forward on his seat. His bony elbows dug into his thighs as he reached his free hand over to push an invisible strand of hair away from Francis’ cheek. His cheeks had regained a rosy pink color.

“I’m so thankful you’re alive,” Arthur said softly to the sleeping form. “I was so worried. Every night, Francis. So worried. If you didn’t make it out of there, I don’t know what I would have done.”

Arthur lifted his head up, trailing his fingers across Francis’ frame. His choppy hair felt rough and foreign under the tips of his fingers, and not like Francis at all. His skin was dry and cracked, and not like Francis at all. Francis, with soft, well kept hair and smooth, moisturized skin. Francis who cared for himself and who cared for others, even when he hid it behind an annoying and flirtatious demeanor. Francis, who Arthur loved to the moon and back, who he was sure was in there but he was so sad was still hidden behind a layer of pain, physical and emotional.

“I love you, Francis,” Arthur went on. “I miss you so much. When I stopped getting your letters, it broke my heart because I thought I was losing you. I wish so much that you could just open your eyes and be okay, and maybe this was all a dream for all of us, because I know you’re hurting and I’m hurting, too. So much. I just keep hearing the ringing of those bombs in my ears, and I wish I could just cuddle up next to you and make it all go away.”

There was a sort of coughing, and a raspy voice let out, “I never knew you were such a romantic, Arthur.” Francis’ voice was croaky; if the situation weren’t so grave, Arthur could have made a  _ great _ joke about calling him a frog, but, no, this wasn’t a time to laugh.

“I thought you were asleep,” Arthur said, face going surprisingly red.

“I was for part of it,” came the scratchy reply. “But I heard most of it.”

The man’s eyes opened as far as they could under the blinding lights, and he gazed up at Arthur through long lashes, the hospital lights around him like the lights of heaven shining on the wings of an angel. Awake, he found the strength to respond to the touch on his fingers, forming his limp hand into a solid shape to grasp the other’s. He let out a morbid cough, followed by a groan of pain and a grimace.

“Are you alright?” Arthur asked, despite the answer. He referred to the wince after the cough, specifically, as he knew it must have reverberated against his broken ribs.

Francis made a request: “Help me sit up,” he asked, “and then come sit by me on the bed.”

Arthur did as he was asked, helping Francis slowly reach a semi-vertical position, leaned back against pillows stacked as high as the French Alps. Arthur, just as slow and careful, crawled next to his lover on the hospital bed, letting the stiff sheets crinkle under his weight. Daintily, he let his right arm find a place behind Francis, letting it sit on the pillow and rest against his back rather than letting it pull Francis close to his body… Again, he didn’t want to cause Francis any more pain, when he had suffered so, so much.

It was too early to ask him about the war, about anything he had seen. There would come a time for that, when they were signing treaties and trying war criminals and trying to figure out how to find peace in the fucked up world. But for now, Francis needed healing, not another wound to fight off, be it here or then, be it physical or mental.

Francis seemed content with leaning back against his arm as they fell into silence.

In the same manner that Arthur tried not to ask questions, Francis also tried to avert the conversation away from it. But it was something which had filled the last several years and every moment of their life. What else was there to talk about, or even think about?

“It’s so boring in here,” noted Francis in a whiny drawl. There was nothing except injuries to pass the time. “I wish I could do something, anything…” 

“Don’t worry,” reassured Arthur. “You’ll heal quickly.” The nations always did. They thrived in a sort of limbo. Not so much the actual country, but not so much human. At a base level, they were truly just nations as humans. They had strength beyond that of a normal man, and they lived as long as their nation did. They healed quickly, unless they were hindered by damage to the country. It was convoluted and complicated, but, since France was alive, Francis would heal just fine.

Francis sent out a monotonous hum at that, neither agreeing or disagreeing. He only said, “Really, love, you should have brought me a book or  _ something _ . Can’t sleep, can’t make love to you… What do you expect me to do?” Even saying that much seemed to put him out of breath, made it hard to take deep breaths.

Arthur rolled his green eyes. He appreciated the attempts to have a lighthearted conversation, almost joking in nature. It was a good reprieve from the constant battle talk for half a decade.

He bent his head to kiss Francis’ cheek. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later,” he whispered with a flirty drag to it. “Once you’re all better, you can rest all you want. Hell, you should be resting now. And then, when you’re not resting… It’s been so long since I have seen you. Lost time and all that dumb, romantic rubbish you like, right?”

A chuckle would have come up and out if not for the pain it would have caused, so Francis nearly smiled towards his lover and let out a soft breath.

“I’m serious, Arthur…” he said absentmindedly, as if he were trying to fathom a coherent thought. “I… won’t be able to sleep. The nightmares were… so bad there. I don’t see why they would… get better now. And, I wish I could touch you. It’d hurt too much. But it would be comforting, for you to be there. And everything hurts, so I just want to feel good, oui?”

“Mm, yeah, I understand.” It was sweet to know that Francis didn’t want to bang him simply because he was bored, but rather for the comfort and pleasure he got from being with Arthur. It really was the image of the romantic rubbish he liked: the comfort of another, the pleasure of touch, the healing properties that a (near) human bond could encourage. Certainly, Francis was deserving of that, especially after everything. Though he was as strong as Arthur, generally speaking, he had been struck so hard by the first world war, and then the second, that he had simply fallen at the snap of a finger. Arthur couldn’t blame him for that, nor could he blame him for needing a getaway from the suffering.

If all went well, peace could be found. Talk of treaties and solutions had included the idea of an international organization, like the League of Nations but better. Hopefully, this would work.

Hopefully Arthur and Francis could catch a break.

Arthur had never been too romantic. Never as much as Francis. He didn’t even get close to Antonio or Feliciano, either, though both could be romantic at times, too. Maybe it was his Germanic leanings; he lacked the Romantic, Mediterranean love of the others, preferring to hide his feelings and emotions, letting them come out only in private, and even then, not as often as expected.

Yet, despite this, he would confess that it would be very nice to have a chance to calm down. Spend time with Francis. Help him work through the emotional issues he was sure the war had brought. Rebuild France, and the world, for that matter. Maybe, if things went well enough for long enough, a ring would be on the table…

No, no, that was too far ahead to think about. Impractical. What mattered now was Francis, who was here and alive, who was healing.

Arthur kissed his temple, pushing choppy, blonde hair out of the way. There would be time for that, later, after this was all dealt with. For now, he was in the moment. A moment of being thankful his love was alive, that he was healing, and that they both were. Though Arthur had seen a lot of fighting in his days, and though the entire world was itself a war, this could be a moment of peace.

Francis, as he looked over, seemed to have been dragged back into peaceful sleep from exhaustion. For now, there were no nightmares. Arthur settled in, knowing that he wouldn’t be moving for a while: maybe he could rest, too.

They had spent years at war, but this one moment of peace… Arthur was thankful for.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed, and I appreciate any kudos/comments you leave!


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